Crossword Compulsions And Coffee Conundrums
by BiteMeTechie
Summary: Ever wondered how you could possibly find yourself indebted to the Riddler? It's easier than you might think...
1. Chapter 1

This has been sitting half finished on my hard drive for the past...um...three months; ever since I started reading Bright Nova's story 'Asylum' and I only just now dug it up to finish it. Mostly because I'm putting off updating the _other_ stuff that I've had lying around for God knows how long. Nothing like procrastinating on one thing in order to push yourself into completing _other_ things. I love the way my brain works (or doesn't...depending entirely on who you ask).

You know what I just realized? This is my sixtieth story posted on this site...huh. Wow.

-

Monica McCall was not an obsessive person by nature. Never did she pick a single thing over which to obsess, nor did she have any uncontrollable urges to do things that would've seemed illogical to the casual observer.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. There was a single, _minor_ compulsion that she had.

She preferred to call it a quirk, but some people would have called it a _compulsion_. However, Monica's definition of compulsive behavior differed from those of most other human beings. She called her need to complete a crossword once daily a quirk because she controlled _it_, it did _not_ control her. She didn't _have_ to finish the Gotham Times crossword every day by midnight, she just liked to, that was all.

The habit developed by chance nine years earlier that hadn't faded over time. Monica had always been an active child, much preferring to devote her time to athletic pursuits rather than academic, and had never even picked up a crossword puzzle before then.

It was early June, four days after her thirteenth birthday, when she broke her knee and tore a tendon playing soccer. She quickly found herself trapped in bed with her leg in an ill fitting brace, under doctors orders not to move for fear of doing herself worse damage.

Being an impetuous, stubborn teenage girl, she hadn't listened to him and tried to get out of bed two days after the break.

True to his word, she did indeed to herself further damage. If you looked hard, you could still see that she limped _ever_ so slightly when she walked, though she tried to cover it.

After her foolish attempt at walking, she found herself practically tied to her bed, forbidden by her parents to so much as _think_ of getting out of it. So, Monica found herself trapped inside the confines of her bedroom for an entire summer with nothing to do.

You would think that it would be heavenly to be waited on hand and foot, day in and day out, with your parents at your every beck and call, allowed to watch endless amount of TV and eat as much junk food as you wanted.

You would be wrong. Monica thought it was positively _hellish_.

For a start, daytime TV _sucked_. There was nothing on but stupid talk shows and soap operas.

And while there was a certain amount of entertainment value to be had in watching two people beat each other with folding chairs (be they real people or actors), it got old _unbelievably_ fast.

If that wasn't bad enough, she didn't even have any school work to keep her mind busy. That might have relieved some of the tension and stir craziness that was trying to overtake her, but as it was, there was _nothing_ to do with her brain. She had already finished all the books she'd been given for Christmas (Christmas in the McCall household was a holiday of books, books and _more_ books), and none of them were good enough for her to be bothered to read them again.

After the first week, Monica started to wonder if her brain was trying to atrophy and leak out of her ears. It certainly _felt_ that way.

It was on a Sunday morning shortly after that when her father came in to check on her. She was already in a foul mood and was not any state to stand his cheer.

Her bad attitude lasted only long enough for her to notice that he had the Gotham Times tucked under his arm, then it dissipated and was replaced by pleading to be allowed to read it.

Mister McCall, who had only been able to deny her a request four times before in her short life, quirked an eyebrow curiously and handed his daughter the newspaper.

After all, he was only going to look at the business section anyway...and she wouldn't disturb it.

After Monica was left alone with the newspaper, she did what any other girl her age would have and flipped to the educational section. Namely: The Comics.

But it wasn't Garfield that caught her attention like it usually did.

Instead, it was a plain black and white box printed on the opposite page.

A crossword.

Intrigued, and with nothing better to do, she read a few of the clues and found she knew the answers. Quite a few, in fact. Monica's interest was piqued and she immediately snapped up a pencil from her bedside table and started work immediately on the clues she knew.

While there were several clues she knew the answers to, her original assumption that the ones in between would fill in on their own was incorrect. There were _far_ more that she didn't know the answers to than the ones that she _did_, and she made more mistakes on that first puzzle than she cared to admit later on.

Monica even begged her mother to drag the huge dictionary down off the shelf that was at least twelve inches tall and six inches thick, because in the very back it contained a crossword puzzle dictionary.

She spent three days on it. Three of the longest days of her life.

But they were also three of the most satisfying. When she filled in the final clue (thirteen across, clue: three captains, solution: Ahab, Nemo And Hook), a sense of accomplishment that didn't equal that of scoring a goal on the field washed over her.

It was a euphoric feeling and she quickly became addicted to it. She demanded the crossword puzzle out of the Gotham Times every day after that and finished them all one at a time.

She started out giving herself three days to complete them, but as she got better, she cut that time down to two days, then down to one. Once she accomplished that, she challenged herself by seeing how quickly she could complete it within that single day's timeframe.

It was a trend that carried over to adult hood.

In fact, she prided herself on her eight year record of completing the Gotham Times crossword every day by midnight without fail.

Sadly, however, it looked like that winning streak was about to be broken.

By one of the simplest clues she'd ever come across the answer to which just refused to come to her.

Maybe it was because she was stuck at work in the Common Grounds coffee shop, trying to sneak in a little bit of puzzle time during her breaks.

Maybe it was because she hadn't had time to work on it first thing this morning because she was running late and had been trying to play catch up all day long.

Or maybe it was because she was fried out from the long night of movie watching the night before.

Whatever the reason, it was nearing midnight and she was no closer to figuring out what the answer was than she had been six hours earlier.

Of course, with the coffee shop empty, she had a little more time to focus on that final clue but with the hands on the garish neon clock growing ever closer to the twelve that would signal closing time, she held out little hope that she would complete her quest in time.

How she had allowed herself to be convinced to come in on her day off and work 'till closing, she had no idea. She chocked it up to the scintillating offer of overtime pay because it was the holiday season and no one _else_ would come in to work. Why the coffee shop stayed open this late was a mystery anyway, after all, hardly anyone came in for espresso at eleven thirty except the bums with a little pocket change who needed something to warm them up before heading off to sleep on the nearest park bench.

"A riddle," she said to herself aloud, staring at the sheet of newspaper spread out on the front counter with such feverish concentration that it might've burst into flames under her gaze.

Six letters. Six _tiny_ letters. Six itty bitty unimportant letters that, for the lack of being able to figure out what they were, were going to break her eight year record of perfection.

Those six little blank boxes were fast becoming the bane of her existence.

A riddle.

Conundrum. Mystery.

All of the words that came to mind didn't fit in the spaces provided.

The bell on the front door tinkled merrily, the sound barely scraping through the jumble of synonyms that were jiggeting about in her brain and someone approached the counter.

"A cup of coffee, if you please."

Monica blinked and pulled herself out of her reverie as she turned towards the coffee machines situated behind the counter, "What sort did you want? Cappuccino, mocha, espresso?"

"Regular."

"Alright, just a second."

Damn. She had everything _but_ regular coffee available. She'd have to make some more.

"It'll be a couple of minutes," she said unhappily, "I'm going to have to brew a fresh pot."

"I can wait," the patient answer came from behind her.

Monica started measuring just enough coffee beans for a single cup and then set them in the grinder.

"A crossword puzzle, eh?" The customer asked with interest over the sound of the coffee grinder.

Damn. Damn him for reminding her. Monica glanced at the clock and saw there were five minutes left before her self imposed deadline was up. Damn. Damn. Damn.

"Yeah," she answered politely, knowing that every minute this guy was in the shop was another she wouldn't get to work on her puzzle, "I've been trying to finish it all day."

"Oh?"

The grinder stopped and Monica fished out a coffee filter from under the counter, "I've been kinda obsessed with finishing the Gotham Times crossword every day by midnight since I was a kid."

Wait...why the hell was she telling a complete stranger about her not-a-compulsion-compulsion? Monica shook it off and went back to work.

"Hmmm." He sounded genuinely interested, "The Gotham Times is a puzzle of some difficulty for the average citizen."

"I wouldn't know," she answered as she unceremoniously dumped the coffee into the coffee machine, "I just like puzzles."

"I'm somewhat of a puzzle aficionado myself," he replied, sounding rather amused, "But I don't suppose you'd be willing to take the assistance of a perfect stranger in this endeavor..."

Monica bit out a laugh, "Are you kidding? If the Riddler himself came in here and offered to help I'd probably kiss him just so long as I get the damn thing finished." She cringed and amended, "Uh...pardon my language."

"Consider yourself pardoned," he answered, sounding even more amused than he had moments before.

The customer was silent then as the coffee finished brewing and Monica was left alone with her thoughts.

Monica quickly filled a Styrofoam cup to overflowing and turned to hand it to the man at the counter, "Did you want cream and sug-"

She very nearly dropped the cup when she saw who she'd been waiting on.

The Riddler.

Well, not exactly the Riddler. He wasn't in full neon green regalia, but it was most definitely him. She'd seen his arrest photo on television several weeks earlier when he was released from Arkham Asylum.

For the life of her, his real name escaped her and she was left to stare at him, jaw gaping and mind careening off in half a dozen directions; not all of them directions she was comfortable about admitting to.

"An enigma," he said, eyes sparkling brightly in the florescent lighting so much so that they were almost frightening to look at.

Monica blinked a few times as she tried to wrap her head around what that could have possibly meant, "Huh?"

"The crossword," he answered as he reached across the counter and took the cup from the stunned clerk.

"Oh," she said lamely.

He reached into the pocket of his pine green coat and for a moment, Monica panicked.

This was the Riddler.

He was a former insane asylum patient.

A villain.

An evil mastermind!

A rogue!

A...a...a...

A paying customer?

Three dollar bills were plunked down on the counter, and Monica stared at them.

"Keep the change," he said cheerfully with a twinkle in his eye that she didn't like very much.

Still dumbstruck, Monica nodded for half a minute before she finally managed a gravelly, "Thanks."

He gave her a polite nod and started out the door.

"I'll be back to collect what else is owed me sooner or later," he called back over his shoulder, looking positively _delighted_ with this turn of events.

The door clicked shut and Monica watched the little bell as it jiggled until it was perfectly still once more.

It took her a solid five minutes to regain enough of her senses to realize what payment she had jokingly promised to the Riddler if he'd help her to solve that thrice damned crossword puzzle.

_If the Riddler himself came in here and offered to help, I'd probably kiss him._

Oh.

Crap.

-

A/N: I dunno...was it too fluffy? I think it was too fluffy. Not as fluffy as feeding Scarecrow soup, but...well, I couldn't do that to Eddums (why am I calling him Eddums O.o?...Nova's bad influence strikes again). Well, at least I'm starting to get a foothold in the Batsy universe, even if it is a rather fluffy one...


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Don't bloody well give me a hard time about Quiz, Query or Echo. _My_ Batman universe doesn't contain them. I would blot Harley Quinn out of my memory as well if I could, but she's too damn prevalent and annoying to ignore by shutting my eyes and sticking my fingers in my ears while screeching "LA LA LA! I CAN'T HEAR YOU!".

-

If anyone on fifty third street noticed that a man walking along with a cup of steaming coffee in one hand was smiling to himself without cause, no one mentioned it.

That might have had something to do with the group mentality that if you saw a convicted felon nonchalantly strolling down the sidewalk, whistling and looking extraordinarily pleased with himself, it was code for "Run as quickly as possible in the opposite direction.".

However, this particular rogue's grin wasn't to be attributed to a crime in the making or an impending explosion; rather, the blame for his glee was to be laid at the feet of a coffee shop clerk who'd graciously made his day without even knowing it.

Monica McCall, a short raven haired woman with brilliant blue eyes and a slight limp working at Common Grounds had just given this particular villain a renewed spring in his step and a grin on his face with one simple sentence.

_If the Riddler himself came in here and offered to help, I'd probably kiss him._

Now, to understand what about that _particular_ simple sentence made the aforementioned man so happy, one had to realize what it could imply and what sort of ideas it could give rise to.

Edward Nygma, alias The Riddler, throughout the history of his extensive and _most_ impressive criminal career, had never had a henchgirl.

It's not because he didn't like women, there was quite a bit of evidence to the contrary on _that_ subject; instead, it was because he had seen Harley Quinn in action on more than one occasion and knew for a fact just how quickly and easily a henchgirl could go from 'helpful' to 'hindrance'.

And while the Joker didn't have any qualms about shoving his loyal puppy of a significant other aside in times of crisis, the Riddler, much as he was loathe to admit it, wasn't so sure he could do the same.

Well...maybe if his henchgirl was like Harley he would. She was devoted, but he could understand why the Joker occasionally felt the urge to shove her out a window. It was an urge that he himself had to control whenever she came within three feet of him. Really, how could one woman grow to be _so_ annoying?

So yes, if you wanted to know why the Riddler didn't have a henchgirl all his own, you could lay the blame at the feet of Harley Quinn.

However, this did not account for the fact he didn't have anyone who _wanted_ to be his henchgirl. Where having one was his choice, the fact that there weren't women lined up around the proverbial block _begging_ for the spot was utterly baffling.

The Joker had Harley, and had others before her (Vague had been a prime example, as was The Mime...though neither of them had the same dogged staying power), The Penguin was always seen positively _dripping_ with various femme fatales, Batman had Catwoman in all her vinyl clad glory...

Hell, even that string bean Jonathan Crane managed to get stalked every once in a while.

So why not him? He was smarter than all of them combined...and after all, wasn't that one of the most desirable qualities that women looked for in a man? Why didn't _he_ have droves of women falling at his feet, begging to be with him?

He spent a far longer time pondering this question than he was comfortable admitting and after quite a long time, he came up with the inescapable answer to the puzzle.

They were intimidated by him.

That _had_ to be it.

He was so dazzlingly clever; so unbelievably, devastatingly smart that they were terrified to approach him. They were so stunned by the sheer power of his puzzling prowess, they didn't _dare_ come near him. It all made perfect sense.

On the one hand, this line of reasoning made him positively _gleeful_. To be so absolutely awe inspiring, so unreachable and untouchable that they all gave up before they even tried was a marvelous feeling indeed. To think of the hordes of women that secretly lusted after him, all of them miserably thinking that they didn't deserve a chance at him, made his ego inflate to an almost unmanageable size.

On the other hand, there was a tiny part of him, a next to ignorable part, an absolutely _miniscule_ part, that was envious of the fact his fellow rogues had followers who were willing to step out of obscurity to pursue them.

Not that he would ever admit it, of course. That would have been laughable.

But occasionally, he wondered what kind of women he attracted. What they looked like, where they were from, what they thought of him...

Naturally, he didn't entertain such thoughts very often, but when he did, he conjured up the most glorious set of admirers for himself. Blondes, brunettes, redheads...all of them clamoring for a piece of him.

However, now there was concrete proof of one such admirer, in the personage of Monica McCall.

And he'd be damned if he was going to let such a sharp tack slip through his fingers. She would be the Question to his Answer; the Juliet to his Romeo; the--

He stopped in mid-stride and mid-sip.

Waxing romantic? Now _that_ would never do.

No. This was not going to be him fawning over the only woman who'd shown him any interest recently, this was going to be a purely professional relationship if he had _anything_ to say about it.

And if you knew the Riddler, you knew that he would have _everything_ to say on the subject.

She had proved herself smart enough to be worthy of his attention--regardless of the fact she worked as a lowly coffee shop clerk--and she had a thing for puzzles.

As an added bonus, she obviously had a thing for _him_.

At least, that's what he had to _assume_, based on her statement…and that assumption would see to it that he had a properly loyal henchgirl by the end of the month.

Yes indeed, he was convinced.

Now all he had to do was convince _her_ of that indisputable fact.

-

A/N: After an extenisive chat with Nova last night about the Riddler's past (The bitch made me CRY!...but I still love her.) and a chat that included creating an original character for our newest co-op comic/fiction series Villainy who shares many of Eddie's more defined personality traits, I decided to dig up the beginning to this continuation of Crossword Compulsions and Coffee Conundrums and work on it.

Looks like this might be a continuing story, whether I like it or not.


	3. Chapter 3

Monica liked normal days. The duller the better. Sure, maybe once in a while she fantasized about a more exciting existence (who didn't?) but she was fast discovering that fantasies and reality when it came to "excitement" differed so much that the two words could have easily been in different languages for all the similarities they held between them.

Some people would have thought meeting--and subsequently becoming indebted to--the Riddler would count as exciting. Indeed, there were a few people that Monica could think of who might be jealous of her current situation. People who would _love_ to be able to say they met a famous rogue.

She wasn't one of those people.

She didn't find it exciting, or thrilling, or the least bit exhilarating; instead, she found it _very _worrying.

From the moment she first clapped eyes on the man called Nygma, she'd bee absolutely terrified that he'd make good on his word to return to the coffee shop to collect what was 'owed' him.

She couldn't say _what_ scared her about him so much, since her encounter with him, at first glance, didn't have any frightening aspects to it, but she still had the crippling fear that he would show up and make her life difficult.

A week and a half after her initial meeting with him, he didn't disappoint.

The lunch hour rush had just started and people were lined up inside the shop, three deep. January weather always saw people crowding inside for hot coffee, pushing at each other in desperation for something warm. Today was no different.

With only Monica and her boss working (the newest girl that had been hired was out with the flu), her nerves were worn to a frazzle as she rushed around trying to keep orders straight in her head and avoid spilling coffee on anyone in her haste.

She was doing rather well, too, right up until the bell on the door jingled and the whole shop went quiet as the grave all at once.

_No. No, no, no. Please not now. Not now!_

The sea of people parted in front of the counter, allowing a man to stroll up, green bowler tucked under his arm. His stride confident and sure, as though he'd been coming in for coffee here his whole life.

Nygma walked right up to a dumbstruck Monica, who had half a container of partially ground beans in one hand which were threatening to spill all over the floor, and placed his order.

"The usual."

Monica blinked.

Her boss blinked.

She was relatively certain that everyone in the room blinked in sync.

"Um," Monica had to force the sound out from around a lump in her throat so huge she thought she might choke on it. "Usual?"

He gave her a dazzling smile, clearly amused by her discomfort. "Coffee. Black."

A handful of the beans in her little container clattered on the floor when she moved to the coffee machine, fingers shaking.

By far, it was the fastest prepared cup of coffee in Monica's short coffee making career. Her timing had never been more perfect and her job never performed with more skill.

She set the cup on the counter and waited for him to take it.

A tiny part of her was also waiting for some sort of disaster to occur. A gunshot, an explosion, a cloud of green gas or something…

Instead, three crisp dollar bills were deposited in front of her, her customer gave her a wink, a nod, said "Keep the change." and sauntered out.

With the pressure off and her heart thudding inside her chest so hard she thought it was trying to escape her body, Monica did the most logical thing she could think of to do after such a stressful experience.

She blacked out.


	4. Chapter 4

Outside common grounds, discreetly peering in through the window and sipping his coffee, the Riddler watched his prey as she hit the floor and the crowd swarmed around the fallen Barista.

A grin of monstrous proportions spread on Nygma's face. She swooned! She actually honest to goodness _swooned_!

Lots of people fainted at the sight of the Joker (either from terror or due to whatever funny colored gas was floating around the room), but no one had--to date--fainted over _him_.

Poor girl couldn't keep her feet under her after five minutes in his presence. How terribly flattering! He was starting to like her more and more…

He considered the occupants of the coffee shop as he continued to drink his coffee. It wasn't a disagreeable establishment at all, really. The clientele was mostly the white collar business type--the sorts who popped in on their lunch break or for their morning jolt of java--and it would, most likely, be a nice quiet place to hang about when rush hour wasn't in progress.

What better way to show the timid young thing that the interest was mutual than to spend a bit of free time in her company?

Of course, he'd have to set her straight eventually; he wasn't there for hanky panky (clearly that's what she was after--he didn't miss the way she gaped and gulped like a fish out of water at the mere sight of him--sexual attraction was simply a given. He _was_ a dreadfully desirable man, if he did say so himself.), but it was nice to be lusted after…maybe he wouldn't have to set her straight right away.

It would be a shame to crush the girl's feelings, after all.

No, he would keep her as she was for now.

He cocked an eyebrow at the scene before him as the customers broke from their cluster formation around the unconscious young woman.

Hm. Looked like she was starting to come around. Looking delightfully ruffled and blushing as well. Intriguing.

Nygma frowned suddenly as an unexpected complication arose in his mind.

How exactly _did_ one go about courting a henchgirl?

It's not that he couldn't figure it out, he'd just never done it before…for once, he was at a loss. The answer man was without an answer…

He snapped his fingers.

He'd ask around, that's all there was to _that._

That should be simple enough.

He'd start with…

Wait, who would he _ask_?

The frown turned into an outright scowl. He certainly wouldn't ask the _Joker_ for advice in this matter. Aside from the fact the clown would laugh at him (not that he was self conscious about that at all, oh no, not at _all_) his methods were likely to cause some kind of permanent damage to his intended.

He shuddered. The last thing he wanted was to warp a perfectly good mind the way the Joker would have…after all, he wanted her competent, if not _smart_. Another Harley Quinn was not the desired result of this project.

So the Joker was out.

Well, the Penguin always had women hanging around him…but Edward was relatively certain that had more to do with the shiny baubles he waved in the faces of debutantes and less to do with Cobblepot's personality (which was nonexistent, in Edward's opinion) than anything else.

Penguin was also crossed off his mental list.

Two Face hadn't any henchgirls recently, neither had the Scarecrow…

Well, that was discouraging.

It looked like he was on his own.


	5. Chapter 5

Though we've already established that the impromptu heroine of our story was inordinately fond of normal, blah days, unfortunately for her, there weren't too many of those to be found in her future.

The days after Edward Nygma's second appearance in the coffee shop had gone from strange to stranger to Ripley's Believe It Or Not.

First, he started coming in for coffee every morning. Seven A.M. sharp, the moment the shop opened, he poked his head inside and claimed a table in the corner with a large notepad and pencil in hand. He would stay, observe Monica while he scribbled whatever dastardly plan it was he was scribbling on, and he promptly left at eight before the morning business set came in for their coffee.

At nine thirty, when the last of the white collar customers were sure to be gone, the Riddler returned, resumed his activities, then left at eleven thirty before the lunch crowd arrived.

As expected, he returned when they left as well.

In essence, whenever the coffee shop was virtually empty of other customers, he made sure he was there.

Nerve wracking didn't even begin to describe it, especially at first when Monica didn't know what his self-made schedule was. The first time he left, she assumed it might be a good time to duck under the counter and cover her head just in case anything blew up.

But then he came back.

And came back.

And _came back_.

Worst of all, as long as he was a paying customer, she had to wait on him...and the unsettling looks he kept casting at her, the sort that a hyena might grace a juicy looking zebra with, went a long way to keeping her on edge. A long neglected habit of chewing her nails reasserted itself as a manifestation of her anxiety.

She found, to her horror, that she had a hard time replacing his coffee whenever he wanted a new one without being all aquiver and threatening to spill something hot on him. She was a total nervous wreck.

Becky, the other coffee shop clerk, who came out of her bout with the flu looking rather chipper, popped inside for work the third day that the Riddler had taken up residence and declared to Monica that this was, by far, the cutest attempt at getting a woman's attention she'd ever seen. Really, to stalk her with such regularity--to make a point of being around at the times when he'd have her pretty much to herself--was _adorable_.

Monica promptly let Becky know she was in desperate need of a new wardrobe. One that involved white jackets with straps and buckles on them. An address in Arkham Asylum wouldn't be out of order, either.

Becky just giggled and made herself scarce whenever she saw that the Riddler was in need of a refill. She said she refused to get in the way of True Love™ and deemed herself Cupid's helper.

About a week passed and Monica started getting to the point where she could look at _his_ corner without the accompanying sensation of ice being dumped down her neck, when the weirdness was stepped up tenfold.

Bouquets started arriving.

For _her_.

Made out of _crossword puzzles._

Someone went to an awful lot of trouble to pay for paper Mache roses made from the Gotham Times, and Monica had a pretty good idea of who that someone was.

Especially considering the fact _he_ took a keen interest in her reactions whenever a bouquet was delivered.

Again, Becky stated that it was meant to be, and started planning a June wedding with a black and white crossword puzzle theme.

Monica thought she was kidding…but she couldn't be sure.

Yes, it was flattering, but any flush of pleased feelings that might have ordinarily accompanied receiving a bouquet from a suitor were trodden due to _who_ the suitor _was._

She might have liked the attention, were it from someone she had a crush on--but regardless of the fact that he was attractive, from a purely aesthetic point of view, naturally--she had no interest in a life of crime or a (gulp) boyfriend with a prison/insane asylum record.

So the question was, how did one let a villain down easy? Preferably while living to tell the tale?


	6. Chapter 6

For three solid months the Riddler managed to stay out of Arkham Asylum, and during those three solid months, he spent something like nine days out of every ten at the coffee shop. He found to his surprise, that he rather enjoyed the quiet atmosphere, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee soon became one that he associated with relaxation. It was the perfect place to plan his next crime, he was rarely disturbed and there was a steady supply of caffeinated beverages on hand (any villain worth his salt would tell you that caffeine was a necessity when it came to making intricate criminal plans…helps the thinking processes along, don't you know), but more and more he found himself stealing glances at the clerk whose heart he'd so thoroughly captured.

She didn't faint at the sight of him anymore, which was both disappointing and thrilling (disappointing because he'd lost his swoon value and thrilling because it meant she was growing more comfortable with him around), but he discovered, much to his chagrin, that he spent more time studying her than she spent studying _him_. She even started smiling at him occasionally--clearly whenever she thought he wasn't looking--and that only made his scrutiny of her intensify.

It wasn't that he was _infatuated_, you understand; he just wanted to know why she'd chosen _him_. What was it that made a woman head over heels in love with the Riddler tick? How did she come upon her unshakeable love for him? What made her want _him_ above all others?

It's not that he doubted…or was insecure…he just wanted to know, is all. He wanted to hear the words and explanations drip forth from her own lips as he lay his head in her lap and allowed her to run her fingers through his hair, listening to her tell him how clever he was, how delightful she found his intelligence, how much she adored the very ground he walked on and just how much she loved--

Wait a minute…what? Where did _that_ come from?

No, no, no, no, no. This was to be a _professional_ relationship. She was smart, she liked him, she'd be an asset in the field. That's all there was to it. Nothing more, nothing less. His resolve to keep it as such dissolved completely the day that she first smiled at him. He found himself grinning back at her against his will, but the moment he realized how foolish he must've looked, he carefully schooled his features into a mask of indifference, but he still, in his head, tried to convince himself he was only interested in her professionally.

_That's_ why he watched her so intently. Yes. He was trying to weigh the pros and cons of her every movement--her _style_--to see what kind of risk she could possibly pose out in Gotham during a job. She performed her every task with keen efficiency, seeming to juggle half a dozen things at once, and the only problems that he could see occurring due to her in some way or another, would surely stem from that slight limp of hers. How had she gotten it? He'd have to ask her...

At the three and a half month mark, Edward popped inside Common Grounds to find…

She wasn't anywhere in sight.

He took a seat at his usual table in the corner, figuring that she was probably just running late and would be in at any given moment.

She didn't show.

All _morning_ she didn't show.

Hell, all _day_.

His uneasiness started to mount as he sipped his coffee (waited for her) and made his plans (watched the doorway like an obsessive hawk for her arrival).

All day she didn't turn up.

The logical part of Edward's brain deduced that she must be horribly, horribly ill. After all, in three and a half months time, she'd never been late for work, much less absent (obviously because she craved to see him so badly), so the only explanation he could come up with was that she was sick in bed somewhere, just _wishing_ she were well enough to come in to work and be with her beloved master of mysteries.

The poor dear.

Edward frowned and put a get-well bouquet on his to-buy list.

With this line of reasoning in mind, he let three days of her nonattendance pass without much concern (worry), but on the fourth day he was seized by the sudden, horrifying thought that maybe something had _happened_ to her.

What if she were so ill she were knocking on death's door? What if on her way home from work she'd been mugged and was lying dead in an alley somewhere? What if she was in a hospital somewhere after some ruffian…_assaulted_ her?

A surge of protectiveness made itself known inside Edward then. How dare anyone presume to even _think_ of injuring his would-be-henchgirl? The very idea! If she had come to any harm, he would see to it that whoever had done the deed would rue the day he crossed paths with the prince of puzzlers!

Edward got up from his table so swiftly that it was jarred off the floor by the action, settling with an upsetting clatter. By the time the table was flat on the floor again, he had gathered all of his belongings and stalked up to the counter to address the…other one.

He never bothered to learn her name.

"You," he said, gesturing with his trademark cane (the only part of his costume that he'd taken to bringing in with him). "You there!"

The blonde clerk turned to look at him, some unknown emotion dancing in her eyes just beneath the surface. "Yes?"

"Where is she?"

She looked like she was trying to figure out what he was talking about before realization dawned. "Monica?"

"_Yes_," he snapped at her. "To whom else would I be referring?"

"Monica's gone," she answered simply, turning back to one of the coffee machines to resume her replacing of the filter.

"I can _see_ that," he said impatiently. "Where has she gone _to_?"

"Dunno," the blonde replied, still not looking up from her work. "You might want to try her at home…um 1547 Hickory, I believe it is."

He was out the door in seconds…

It was a good thing, too, otherwise he might have caught Becky cackling at his (clearly love-struck) haste and would have had to kill her for her insolence.


	7. Chapter 7

It had been three days since Monica had quit her job and she'd been quietly congratulating herself on her stroke of brilliance ever since.

Maybe other people would have considered it to be a cowardly course of action but Monica, after weeks of silent inner turmoil during which during which she looked at every possible angle and all the potential outcomes the way an expert chess player considered his moves, she came to the conclusion that her only way out was to quit working at Common Grounds entirely. It was a shame really; before _he_ had started showing up, she was quite content with her line of work…and now, she had to find a new way to pay the bills.

It was with this line of reasoning in mind that she dragged herself out of bed that fateful Sunday morning, intent on retrieving the newspaper that would be waiting by her front door. Or rather, the front door of the duplex she occupied. She could only hope old Mister Kresswell wasn't up and about this early; he was a pain in the ass to deal with.

Monica pulled on a ragged old pair of jeans and slithered her way into a t-shirt with a tear at the bottom before slipping on her trainers and starting out of her little apartment and down the stairs as quietly as possible. Mister Kresswell wasn't in the hallway with his little card table set up, so there was no point in disturbing the old man--thusly waking him up and making it impossible for her to get away from him without first hearing a story about how things were in the old country when he was a child.

It wasn't that he was _dull_…he was just…well, maybe dull _was_ the right word to use.

Creeping down the hallway and glancing behind herself every few seconds, Monica carefully opened the front door and crouched to pick up the newspaper.

The sight that greeted her was something that her still sleep addled brain had to _work_ to process.

There was a slick, cylindrical piece of metal in front of her (cane, her mind supplied after a few seconds) and a pair of shoes in a dark, _dark_ shade of green that was so close to black, if you weren't looking at them from less than ten inches away, you would've thought them ebony.

The shoes were attached to a pair of ankles (after all, what else would they be attached to?) which led to knees, a pelvis, a chest and…

His smiling face.

**His** smiling face.

The Riddler was smiling down on her.

Monica felt all the blood drain from her face and her mouth dropped open, leaving her gaping like a fish as she gasped for air, wondering momentarily why she'd never been diagnosed with asthma before _now_ when she was clearly suffering from a nasty case of it, what with her chest pumping fruitlessly and no oxygen getting into her lungs.

"Good morning, my dear."

Thud.

And damn if she wasn't making fainting a trend.


	8. Chapter 8

If there was a prize for really rotten judgment, Edward Nygma was positive he'd have been the recipient of the award. He had a sneaking suspicion that somewhere, there was an awards ceremony taking place and a nice golden statuette with the words "For Edward Nygma: World's Biggest Shmuck" stamped on it just _waiting_ for him to come and accept it.

As he sat on the steps to the duplex on 1547 Hickory Road, his cane precariously balanced on one of his knees, he tried to piece together all the clues that had been staring him in the face all along, growing more and more dour by the moment as he reran all the events that had just taken place in his head again and again.

He had arrived at her home, expecting her to be either very, _very_ ill, not at home, or insanely happy to see her beloved Riddle Romeo on her doorstep. After all, she hadn't laid eyes on him in several days, surely, as badly in love as she was, she'd be heartsick without him…

Or so he'd _thought_.

When she'd passed out at his feet, he'd done the chivalrous thing and scooped her up in his arms (nearly breaking his back in the process…he wasn't exactly a body builder, after all), returning her to her apartment where she regained consciousness and started babbling at him in a panic due to the fact she had a notorious _villain_ on her couch, drinking her tea and eating her cookies (well, the tea service _had_ been sitting right there…and Edward had never turned down a rum raisin cookie in all his life).

Through the babble and the eyes wide with _fear_ (not awe), he started to understand a few facts that had somehow managed to escape his notice before then.

She wasn't in love with him. Hell, she didn't even _like_ him. As a matter of fact, she was _terrified_ of him…

She hadn't swooned over him, she'd passed out from fright.

She didn't get nervous when she served him because she was worried of what he thought of her, she was concerned he had a weapon on him or a toxin or something equally dastardly, just waiting for the right opportunity to strike at her.

Was he really so unskilled in matters of the heart that he misread _all_ the signals, despite his incredible intellect?

Apparently so.

Most discouraging indeed.

He tried to convince himself that he wasn't disappointed about the whole thing; tried to convince himself that his displeasure with the situation was brought on by his anger at own stupidity and not because he was secretly looking forward to having an adoring henchgirl at his side, but that didn't work out very well.

He was Gotham's smartest villain, damn it; he was not allowed to make mistakes of this magnitude! He was not allowed to be enamored with a woman who _clearly_ had no feeling for him other than absolute loathing and anxiety that he was out to get her!

And he _was_ enamored, much as he abhorred the idea.

Especially since she didn't share the sentiment. It was one thing to fall head over heels for someone who was head over heels for _you_; quite another when it was unreciprocated.

That was the worst thing about this sad state of affairs. Throughout his months of spending time in her company, he'd become absolutely, completely smitten with the young barista with a penchant for crossword puzzles. To find out _now_ after he'd thoroughly fallen in love with her that she couldn't _stand_ him was extremely devastating.

(Not that he wouldn't get over it. He would. He was already well on the road to recovery. No broken heart here, nope, nope, nope.)

For a few insane seconds, he considered trying to do something drastic to win her over, but his more sensible side swiftly lassoed his inner Don Juan, stamping out any ideas of moonlight serenades or rooms filled with dozens of rose bouquets.

She wasn't interested. That's all there was to it. No further discussion necessary.

Well, it wasn't the end of the world. Or so he told himself as he glumly got up from his spot on the concrete steps and brushed off his suit, tugging at his jacket lapels and smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles on the front of his trousers.

There had been riddle crimes to commit before he knew Monica McCall existed, and there were _still_ riddle crimes to commit after her exit from his life. This was just a minor, unimportant bump in the road of his long career as Gotham's smartest villain.

Besides…a loving henchgirl with affection to shower on him whenever he wanted it probably would have just slowed him down anyways…

_Yeah. Right. And denial ain't just a river in Egypt, Edward._


	9. Chapter 9

Her left foot was tapping against the mosaic tile floor and her right knee was bobbing up and down anxiously as Monica gnawed on her thumbnail with such vigorous abandon that her lunch companion was worried she might chew her whole hand off before too long if she were allowed to continue.

The Riddler was in police custody. A man for whom she had, on more than one occasion, expressed an extreme dislike.

Monica didn't want his crossword puzzle roses. She didn't want his gift baskets. She most _certainly_ didn't want his _admiration_…

And now that he was safely locked away in one of the more shadowy parts of Arkham Asylum, she wouldn't have to worry about that anymore.

She should have been jumping for joy and celebrating as if she'd just won the lottery, as much as she loathed all the attention he'd tried to lavish on her…

So why the hell was she fidgeting so much?

"I thought crossword puzzles were supposed to help you relax."

Monica was so startled by Becky's statement that the page she was working on ripped when her pencil ran afoul of a crease in its surface.

"I AM RELAXED!"

Becky cocked a curious and disbelieving eyebrow at the woman seated across from her.

Maybe her obvious disbelief had something to do with the fact that Monica's screech was punctuated by her noisily snapping her pencil in half.

"Well, you're doing an awfully good impression of a nervous wreck for someone who's _soooo_ relaxed." The blonde took a sip of her coffee and licked the excess foam from her upper lip before daintily picking up a biscotti and taking a bite. "Why don't you just admit it, Mon?"

"Admit what?" Monica asked distractedly as she tore the ruined page from her crossword book, crumpled it and then smoothed out the next one, intent on starting fresh.

"You miss him," Becky said casually.

RIIIP.

Yet _another_ crossword puzzle was torn asunder and Monica glared up at her former coworker, eyes blazing--not only due to the fact her book was shredded further, but because of the absurdity of her announcement. "Have you lost your mind?"

Becky leaned forward conspiratorially and grinned. "Oh come on, you have to confess it _was_ awfully sweet the way he hung around for so long, always trying to talk to you and giving you things…and he _was_ kinda cute."

"You _have_ lost your mind!" Monica exclaimed.

Becky sighed and rolled her eyes as she sat back in her chair. "Look, for the past three weeks, we've been meeting for lunch. And over those past three weeks, I've seen you get more and more antsy with every passing day."

"So? That doesn't mean anything."

Becky gave Monica a measured look. "And the fact that it all coincides with Edward Nygma being committed to Arkham Asylum again is what, a twist of fate? A coincidence? A _fluke_?"

Monica threw the crossword puzzle book on the table angrily. "You know, if you like him so much, why don't _you_ date him?"

"He's never been interested in _me._" Becky flipped her hair in mock haughtiness. "Apparently, brilliant, busty blondes don't do it for him…geeky, gimpy crossword puzzle fanatics do. You're _obviously_ upset that he's gone--"

"I am not gimpy--and he's not--and I am not upset that he's--…Becky it's **not** what you think!" Monica dropped her head forward until it was resting on the table, garnering a few odd looks from the other café patrons. "It's got nothing to do with that! It's just--"

"Just _what_?" 

Monica let out a pathetic wail and konked her head on the table in frustration. "I'm happy to have him out of my hair and everything, don't get me wrong--but the crime they arrested him for? He…he couldn't have done it. That was the day he came to my apartment. He was with me at the time it happened."

"You mean to tell me that you let him go to prison for a crime he didn't commit?" Becky picked up the crossword puzzle book and thwacked her friend on the head with it.

"OW!"

"It's better than you deserve, madam! You should be glad this is a soft cover!" Becky scolded. "Honestly! Letting him go to _jail_ for something you know he didn't do!"

"Arkham isn't a jail," Monica defended lamely, sitting up to look at her friend, the look in her eyes pleading for understanding.

"You're right, it's **worse **than a jail--" Becky smacked Monica with the book again. "And that is **not** the point!"

Monica grabbed Becky's wrist and tore the crossword volume from her hand. "Stop HITTING ME!"

"Not until you stop deserving to _be_ hit! I intend to beat some sense into you if it kills me, Monica!" Becky cried angrily. "You can't let this stand. You just _can't_ let Nygma rot in Arkham!"

"He would have wound up back there anyway! He _is_ _a criminal_, not some lovesick lothario who needs a hug! He's a convicted felon with _mental problems_ that all the love in the world won't fix, or have you forgotten **that**?"

"Oh, and that makes wrongful imprisonment okay? Monica," Becky said warningly, "You are going down to talk to someone at the police department about this if I have to drag you there by the hair!"

"I'd like to see you try, twiggy," Monica snapped as she folded her arms across her chest arrogantly. "Gimpy or not, I can still lick _you_!"

She didn't like the way that Becky's disposition changed suddenly, going from defiant, angry and dangerous to cool, calm and collected in seconds flat. It spoke of sneakiness on her part, Monica just _knew_ it.

"_Monica_, don't try to fool yourself into thinking you can keep on going like this. Guilt is obviously eating away at you…like acid on your insides…just rolling around in your gut, chewing away at the lining of your stomach like a million hungry little creatures--"

"Okay, okay! Stop it!"

"So you'll do it?"

"I'll do it," Monica answered dejectedly, sighing heavily as though the weight of the world had just decided to stop by and seat itself squarely on her shoulders.

"Well? What're you waiting for?" Becky asked, glancing between Monica and the café exit. "He's not getting out of his cold, lonely cell with the only witness for the defense sitting on her ass in a coffee shop looking like she just swallowed a lemon."

"But--"

"No buts. Go _now_. He's probably already got a hell of a cramp from being mistakenly confined in that straightjacket for so long a time…"

With a huff and a glare, Monica shuffled out of her seat and slipped her jacket on before dropping a couple of dollar bills on the table to cover her half of the check.

"**Now**, Monica."

"I'm goin', I'm goin'. Geez. Oh, and as a side note, Beck? I totally hate you."

"I love you too, Mon. Now _get going_."

As her friend stalked out of the coffee shop, casting her a few nasty looks on the way through the door, Becky glanced heavenwards. "Cupid buddy, you owe me for this one."


	10. Chapter 10

The ceiling of Arkham Asylum was the same as it ever was as Edward Nygma stared at it, counting the little paint bumps one by one (no ceiling tiles allowed--sharp edges, don't you know), wondering about a great many things, including whether or not this would be what hell was like whenever he got around to joining the ranks down there. He certainly couldn't think of anything worse than being in Arkham; to be a man with things to do and no way to do them was torturous.

But at least it wasn't shock therapy.

On second thought, there probably _were_ worse things than being in Arkham, locked in a cell with nothing to do.

It came as quite a surprise, of course, when late one afternoon (or at least, he_ thought_ it was late afternoon--but he couldn't be sure, since he had neither window nor clock with which to chart the passage of time) two orderlies arrived outside his cell and ordered him out.

Even more puzzling was the fact that rather than dragging him to a therapy session or to the 'rec room' for 'group time' the way they _usually_ did, they took him to the property locker facility, where he was given back his suit, in all its shining emerald glory, and ordered to dress.

Stranger still was what they did _after_ he had his suit back on. 

They escorted him _out_ of Arkham without so much as a single word of explanation about why he was being _released_.

Edward wasn't the sort of man who liked having confusing ends to a mystery left dangling in front of his face, like pieces of a puzzle in a disarray, just waiting for someone to pick them up and put them back in their proper order again; and as he started away from the gates of Arkham, completely bewildered by this turn of events, he very nearly stumbled over the answer to his unvoiced questions.

Literally. He nearly tripped over her.

Or her car, rather.

Edward had been glancing behind himself at Arkham, wondering why the guard at the gate was looking at him _that_ way, when his foot connected with something solid and he bumped into a very sturdy piece of steel, which almost sent him sprawling.

He caught himself by grabbing hold of the door handle to the little foreign economy model and he felt his eyes get wide at the realization of who was sitting behind the wheel.

Monica was chewing on the left side of her bottom lip so harshly that it was cherry red and she flicked her eyes up to meet his briefly before she tightened her grip on the steering wheel and returned to staring out the windshield, brow furrowed.

Edward recovered from his shock in an impressively short amount of time and cleared his throat.

She didn't respond. At least, not at first, so he cleared his throat again--a little louder than the last time.

She snapped her head around and glared at him fiercely. "Are you going to get in or are you not-so-subtly asking for a cough drop? 'Cause I warn you now, I don't have one handy."

"You're inviting me _in_?" He asked, one eyebrow lifting of its own accord.

"_Yes_," she returned irritably. "Now if you don't get in by the count of three, I'm driving off---"

Slam!

Edward's seatbelt clicked noisily as he secured it around his middle and turned to smile at the woman who'd clearly come to his rescue.

She turned to look at him, narrowing her eyes suspiciously at his far too friendly grin. "Now, look, I didn't do this for _you_--"

"Conscience get to you, did it?" He smirked knowingly.

"Don't get any ideas, Mister Nyg--"

"Call me Eddie."

"I'd really rather not."

His grin got just a few centimeters wider. "It's alright, honestly, I don't mind."

"Well, I _do_. Now look, I--"

He cut her off. "Are you still out of a job?"

Monica's knuckles made a crackling noise when she tightened her grip on the steering wheel _again_, but to her credit, she contained her temper. "As a matter of fact, yes I am. Not that it matters, because I'm not going to--"

"How would you like to work for _me_?"

"I _wouldn't_."

"Oh, sure you would." His eyes sparkled with that same disturbingly bright shininess they had on the first night he'd made contact with the enchanting crossword puzzle enthusiast across from him. "It wouldn't be anything too complicated; just…clerical work and suchlike."

"I don't think--"

"Well, it's either that," Edward glanced at his nails with an air of nonchalance as he spoke, "Or you can make good on that payment you owe me."

He made a point of leering at her lecherously as he unbuckled his seat belt and leaned towards her.

Monica's hands shot out and pressed against his chest, holding him back out of smooching reach. "There's no need for that! If…if you need a _secretary--_an honest to God secretary, without any illegal, prosecutable duties involved--"

"Of course not, my de--"

Her expression grew severe. "If you call me your dear again, I'm going to slug you, super villain or not."

His smile didn't falter. "Very well. A working relationship _only_."

She eyed him oddly and he could practically _see_ her weighing her options as she continued to nibble on her lip.

"Fine. So long as I'm not involved in anything illegal and there's no attempts at hanky panky on your part, I'll do it."

His face looked like it was going to split apart with the width of his shark-like grin as he leaned back in his seat and clicked his seatbelt back into place once more. "It'll be a pleasure working with you."

He _thought_ he heard her mutter something under her breath along the lines of 'That's what _you_ think', but nothing could dampen his spirits with this little victory. This may have been just the first battle in the war for her undying loyalty, but he'd won it just the same.

He had a new puzzle to work out--one that would take time and effort to complete--and she was sitting right next to him, looking as fetchingly befuddled as ever.

Freedom was going to be _sweet._

-

A/n: Th-th-that's all folks! No more Monica, no more Egocentric!Edward. Not from me, anyway. You hereby have my permission to take my dear Monica and write her further adventures with the Riddler if you so choose (just drop me a note and let me know--plus give me credit for her creation in an author's note is all I ask), but as for me? I'm done with her.

Goodnight folks, try the veal, tip your waitress and drive safely!


End file.
